


No Standard Operating Procedure Exists

by poisontaster



Series: Every Broken Thing [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-24
Updated: 2006-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5562616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set around S1.20, "Dead Man's Blood".  Brothers who fuck gets a LOT more complicated when your dad shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Standard Operating Procedure Exists

Almost the moment Dad shuts the door behind him to go to his own room, Sam's pushing Dean up against the wall, mouth and tongue sweet from the last of his vanilla shake and salty from the fries.

"Dude…Sam—don't." Dean plants his hands on Sam's shoulders and pushes him back a step, turning his face aside. The churn of his stomach—constant and ugly—wars with curling heat caused by Sam pressed up against him. Sam's been damn near bouncing out of his skin since Dean came down against Dad in the latest battle of wills.

Dean knows what Sam's thinking; that Dean's _on his side_. And if he'd ever bothered to ask, Dean could tell him that wasn't the case at all. Dean's not on anybody's side; he's fucking sick to death of sides. He said what he said because it was the truth.

"Dean…" Sam bends, head and body, and ducks under Dean's gaze. He puts his thumb under Dean's chin and tips Dean's head up to his mouth, slow sucking kisses that make Dean's eyes close and his breath hitch.

But.

Dean shoulder blocks Sam and twists away. "Don't. Dad could come back in here any time."

And that's the other part of it.

Sam's got a _look_ and the way he's holding his body… Dean can tell a part of him wants to say _fuck Dad_ , but for all his lip, Sam ain't that crazy. Dad would… Well. Dean's not sure his imagination's good enough to think what Dad would do, but it makes the knot in his stomach compact a little tighter, threatening to send his dinner back the way it came.

Sam's hands fall down to his sides and some of the restless energy glitter dies out of him. "So…what? We're just going to pretend?"

"Look, man," Dean hates having to be the voice of sanity, but here they are. "Dad got separate rooms for a reason; because he doesn't see a reason two grown men should be sharing the same bed."

"Okay," Sam says in that reasonable voice that Dean _hates_ because it means Sammy's going to try and talk him around. "But there _is_ a reason." He comes closer and Dean backs up a couple more steps. He's not good with _no_ and Sam; he knows this.

"What, Sam? _You_ want to tell him his boys have been fucking each other behind his back? Because I'm pretty sure that's not something Dad really wants to hear. And I _know_ I don't want to tell him. If we're lucky, he'd only shoot me."

"He's gone to bed, Dean! He won't even be back until morning. That's plenty of time for…" Sam waves his arms inarticulately.

Dean feels cold. "For what?" He asks, and his voice has turned low and dangerous without him quite meaning it to. "A quick screw? Sammy, you _romantic_."

Sam's jaw clenches and lengthens. "Sam," he corrects, for the first time in a while.

A part of Dean wants to snap back, crack wise, but he's tired of it, all the fighting, this constant sense of walking on razor sharp pins and hot coals. He's just _tired_. He shrugs. "Okay, yeah, _Sam_. Whatever. I'm going to bed. We're up early tomorrow. You know Dad."

Yeah. Sam knows Dad. Dean sees it in the widening of Sam's pupils. It's not just fear that keeps them quiet; Sam talks a lot and acts the defiant son, but Dean sees his eyes when he talks about finding Dad; he saw Sam the first time they caught up with Dad in Chicago.

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed, feeling ancient and ill and starts to unlace his boots.

From where he left him standing, Sam says softly, "I just thought it would be different."

And…fuck. Against his better judgment, Dean plants his hands on his knees and looks up at Sam.

"It doesn't have to be sex," Sam says hoarsely. His shoulders slump in and down, the way he does when he doesn't want to be noticed, although how he expects to accomplish that at his height and size, Dean's never understood. "I don't… We can just sleep."

Dean doesn't say anything, aware he's wavering himself. He doesn't want to sleep without Sam any more than Sam apparently wants to sleep without him. But with Dad just on the other side of the wall…

It isn't the sane choice; or the smart one, or even the rational one. And while Dean has no problem being none of those things under the right circumstances, this isn't them. So he just stares at Sam, while Sam stares right back looking like someone's kicked puppy.

Finally Sam moves first, breaking the detente. He goes to the table and picks up his bottle of soda, the plastic slightly smeary with grease. Dean lets his breath out and puts his elbows on his knees instead of his hands, wobbling between relief and disappointment.

This is how it's going to be; just like it used to be, with Dad and Sam barking and circling like two stray dogs all the time and him and Sam stealing time where and how they can.

Sam's right and he's not the only one who thought it would be different.

Sam kicks off his sneakers and opens the bottle cap with a hiss. Then, going to the second bed, he pulls back the cheap coverlet and the felted blanket underneath. Dean goes back to his own clothes, fumbling with the heavy buckle of his belt.

"Dean."

Dean looks up in time to watch Sam upend the bottle over the other bed, Pepsi falling in a shimmering fizz to douse the sheets, blanket, and start soaking into the mattress.

"Dude, what…?"

Sam grins. "Shouldn't have been roughhousing, man; how'm I supposed to sleep in all that?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but finds himself grinning back, unwillingly. "Guess you can't."

"Guess not," Sam agrees, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, for chrissakes, Sam; c'mon." Dean finishes stripping out of his jeans and tosses his socks in the general direction of his shoes. He leaves his T-shirt on and scoots back on the bed. Sam strips down to just boxers, fucking cock tease, and slides in next to him, still grinning like a loon.

"I suppose you're pleased with yourself?" Dean asks, resolutely flat on his back, rather than curling in on his side towards Sam.

Not that it deters Sam one little bit. Sam pushes and nudges and outright shoves until he's plastered up against Dean's side, already starting to put out heat. "Yeah, pretty pleased," Sam says, once Dean's done growling and shoving back and they're settled more or less together. Dean reaches up and turns off the light. "What? No goodnight kiss?"

Dean pushes Sam's face away and musses his hair, and Sam laughs. Dean starts to relax, lulled as ever by the sound, then remembers all the reasons he can't.

"G'night, man," Sam mumbles and pushes his face into the hollow of Dean's shoulder, pushes his hand under the hem of Dean's shirt to rest over his stomach; Dean sighs.

Sam drops off right away—of course he does—but Dean lies awake, staring at the neon and arc-sodium reflections on the acoustical tile. He's really tired, but the gnawing sense of dread, of being closed in and without direction won't let him sleep. Plus…

Dean waits until he's sure Sam is fully, soundly asleep then slowly and carefully pulls his arm and shoulder out from under Sam's face. He turns over—just as careful—and puts his back to Sam, thinking it's a flimsy defense, but better than John Winchester, ex-Marine and all round badass hunter coming in and watching his boys—his _sons—_ snuggled together like…well. Like _that_.

Sam mutters in his sleep—just normal sleep mumbles—and turns over in the other direction, which is even better. Even so, it's a long time before Dean can sleep.

 

 

"C'mon boys, rise and shine." Dean wakes up to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, rough and brisk and infinitely familiar.

"Sam?" he slurs, even as he knows it isn't Sam. He can _feel_ Sam, draped all over his back like a lemur, one arm and one leg mostly thrown over and his half-hard cock right in the crack of Dean's ass. Warm, comfortable and with all things being equal, Dean's more than a little tempted to slide his hips backwards and along that rigid length.

But as it usually does, everything comes back in a cold water rush-tumble and Dean sits up all at once, shoving Sam off of him and opening his eyes to Dad standing over him looking impatient and amused at the same time. Oh _shit_.

"Dad!" he yelps, several notes above his normal voice. He almost pulls something, leaping out of the bed so fast.

"You boys going to sleep all day?" Dad asks; the dry voice with the iron underneath. "C'mon. We gotta hit the road."

"There was… Sam spilled his pop all over the other bed."

Dad's looking at Dean weirdly and Dean can't interpret it over the panicked thrum of his heartbeat. "Yeah, Dean; I saw that."

"Liar," Sam says sleepily, sitting up and scratching through his hair with one hand. "You _made_ me spill that pop, Dean." Sam yawns.

"Oh, you lying bastard…" Dean lunges at Sam, only to be brought up short by the sound of their father's voice, this time the drill sergeant voice.

_"Boys."_

"Yes, sir." It slips out of them both, almost unnoticed, and Dean finds himself straightening.

"No time for games now. Gear up. I want us out of here in twenty."

"Yes, sir," Dean says again, but this time, it's his voice alone. Sam yawns and stretches, completely fucking unfazed. Dad gives Dean a _look_ —again completely unfathomable—and turns on his heel and walks out.

The minute Dad's gone, Dean turns and swats Sam on the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"You totally deserved it!" Dean stalks over to his duffel and digs out fresh clothes. "I told you he was going to walk in here and…"

"Dean. He doesn't know anything," Sam insists. "He doesn't suspect anything. Why are you freaking out?"

Dean sighs and turns to face Sam again. "Look, man. I know that this is all…fun and games for you right now…get one over on the old man and all that, but…" He leans on the table with his hands, trying to pick through the unfamiliar tangle of words. "It'll kill him, Sam. It'll just kill him. And I don't want… I don't want be responsible for that. Do you?"

"No." Sam's looking down at the coverlet. For a change he looks small and very young. "No, of course not. But what, then?"

"I don't know."

"I don't want to pretend any more," Sam says. "I'm tired of pretending. And I thought we were past this."

"Pretending is what we do," Dean answers softly. There are other things he could say, things he half-wants to, but none of them fix anything, so he doesn't. The silence spins out for a while and finally, Dean shoves himself to his feet. "I'm gonna jump in the shower."

"Dean?" Sam slides out of the bed and stands there.

"Yeah?"

"We okay?"

Dean sighs a little and goes over to Sam. He curls his hand around Sam's bicep and tugs Sam into him, tilting his head up to brush across Sam's mouth with his own. Just a fast touch of lips, but it deepens almost immediately, Sam's huge hands sliding over Dean's face and into his hair. Finally Dean pulls back—sooner than he'd like, later than he's comfortable with. "Yeah, Sammy; we're fine."

Sam's eyes are half-lidded; when they open all the way, his pupils are wide and infinitely dark. Dean takes a shaky breath and puts some more space between them, not sure what he'll do otherwise. "Okay."

Dean gathers up his clothes a second time and head towards the bathroom.

"You know…" Sam speaks up again just as Dean's about to close the door. "Twenty minutes isn't very long."

Dean cocks an eyebrow.

Sam smiles at him. "Think we should shower together to save time?"

Dean rolls his eyes and closes the door in Sam's face.


End file.
